


What's the Fourth?

by aohatsu



Series: we have learned the footsteps [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, november - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23782954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: In November, Peter takes a ride on a float.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: we have learned the footsteps [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713436
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	What's the Fourth?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearnedFoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/gifts).



Peter’s not sure what’s going on, and Mr. Stark won’t talk about it.

They’ve had sex _three times_.

Idly, he stabs the eggs on his plate with a fork.

First, at his eighteenth birthday party. Thor had brought his own alcohol, and while it had tasted pretty good and let Peter actually get drunk for the first time despite his tendency to metabolize things like alcohol too quickly for it to have much of an effect, it had _also_ had a pretty damning side-effect that resulted in him burning up, clinging to Mr. Stark, begging him to _please_ , please fuck him, even while Peter sucked a hickey onto Mr. Stark’s throat.

He can still remember what Mr. Stark tasted like, the way his adam's apple moved under Peter’s tongue when he swallowed and told Peter _no, Peter, kid, we can’t, you have to let me go_.

Peter hadn’t, and Mr. Stark – only after F.R.I.D.A.Y. had explained that if Peter didn’t “find release” soon was going to _literally_ overheat and die – gave in and took Peter to his room, laid him out on his sheets, whispering sweet nothing about fucking him loose on his tongue and calling him sweetheart like that wasn’t going to drive Peter’s dreams for the rest of his life before finally fucking him so hard that Peter barely remembers anything beyond white static and stars and feeling like he’d fallen off a precipice.

And Mr. Stark had left, grimacing, as soon as Peter had “found his release”.

That Mr. Stark had gotten off too wasn’t much of a comfort afterward when Peter had to figure out how to breathe again through the knowledge that he’d just fucked up _everything_.

But it hadn’t ended up being a one-time thing.

Just a little more than a month later, on Peter’s first assigned Avengers mission in Space—the whole situation with the donut ship and the sneaking on-board without permission thing not counting—he and Mr. Stark had ended up having to have sex again. Well, okay, Peter had gone to his knees and sucked Mr. Stark off, but it still counted, especially because afterward, Mr. Stark had touched him back, getting Peter off too even though he hadn’t had to, probably.

Maybe it was something like fair play, in Mr. Stark’s head, or maybe he’d just been lost in the moment. Despite the fact that the whole situation was questionable and awkward—they were surrounded by aliens doing the same thing, all as an act of worship for a god who demanded you fuck for him, which was really weird even though Peter doesn’t want to, like, judge other cultures or whatever—it was easy, at least for Peter, to sink into the sensation of it. His mouth stretched wide around Mr. Stark’s cock. The way Mr. Stark smelled, how he tasted. How the muscles in his thighs were tense, like all Mr. Stark wanted to do was fuck forward with his hips, push his cock deeper down Peter’s throat, but he was holding himself still for Peter’s sake.

Peter drags a torn piece of egg through a puddle of ketchup and raises it to his mouth, chewing slowly.

Then the third time, at the Garden on Halloween.

That time it was Rocket’s fault—a stupid prank about Mr. Stark and Peter’s fake marriage from the last mission (and wasn’t that an entirely different topic to spend hours in bed thinking about) that was eerily similar to the first time they’d had sex, some sort of alien aphrodisiac that made Peter so horny he felt like he’d _die_ if he didn’t get to come.

Mr. Stark had given him a hand job in a private box at the Garden, a Halloween PR event with Avengers and Derek Jeter and a bunch of other Yankees not twenty feet away, completely oblivious to Peter’s infamous Parker Luck striking again.

He coughs, dropping his fork and pushing his plate away on the table, grabbing for his water bottle and taking a long drink to clear his throat. He glances at the television that’s on in the other room, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade just starting. Uncle Ben, Aunt May and Peter used to all watch it together every year while the turkey cooked.

Now it’s just him and Aunt May.

Mr. Stark had asked, actually, just two weeks ago, if Peter wanted to ride the Stark Industries float with him as his intern. Not as Spiderman, but as _Peter Parker_. As much as he’d wanted to say yes, Peter’s glad that he didn’t. Aunt May is sitting on the sofa, orange juice in her hand, looking at the old notebook with the list of foods she needed to buy like she’s not sure if she missed something or not.

Aunt May always forgets something; it’s as much a part of their Thanksgiving tradition as watching the parade together is.

Besides, it was still awkward between them even just last week when Peter had gone over to work in the lab. Mr. Stark doesn’t want to talk about it, so Peter has avoided bringing it up, but he can’t stop thinking about it either.

They’ve had sex three times, on three separate occasions.

What was that thing people said? Once is an accident, twice a coincidence, and three times is a pattern?

Peter’s pretty sure it’s a quote from a James Bond movie, but the point stands.

By the time third time you’ve had sex with somebody, it has to mean something.

It means something, right?

“Peter,” Aunt May says, suddenly, and Peter looks up.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he says, jumping for the window and ditching his pajamas while grabbing his spider-suit out of the clean laundry basket on the way. The Green Goblin is his villain, if you classified them, and anyway, he’s not just going to watch a superhero-villain fight on the television, especially not when _Iron Man_ is involved.

By the time he gets there, the crowd is going crazy – people are running, some of the giant air balloons have gone down, trapping people underneath them, a bunch of floats have been cap-sized and are blocking pathways of escape so people are just climbing over them.

Other people are just standing and taking pictures with their phones; you really have to love New York.

Peter jumps into the action quick.

He gets hit twice, his webbing breaks twice, he gets thrown into a balloon twice, lands on the Hulk’s face (it’s a float) once. Mr. Stark’s left boot is sparking, making his flying haphazard at best by the time they finally get rid of all the bombs—Mr. Stark using F.R.I.D.A.Y. to blow three up so high in the air that nobody gets hurt other than a pretty light show, and Peter, unfortunately, getting hit in the face with fourth, not that it does anything to him other than make him a little dizzy and lightheaded and, oh, right, horny as fuck.

Because if the third time is a pattern, then there’s obviously going to be a fourth, right?

He’s too dizzy to explain, and Mr. Stark drags Peter into the Stark Industries float—the inside, empty after the chaos of a ruined parade—and orders Karen to get rid of his mask. Mr. Stark takes Peter’s face in his hands, pulling this way and that and looking into Peter’s eyes with worry in his own.

“Your pupils are dilated,” Mr. Stark says. His fingers are still touching Peter’s face.

“Pete, you with me?”

“Third time’s a pattern,” Peter mumbles, and reaches up to touch the center of his chest. Immediately, the spider-suit expands and puddles to the ground around his feet. He’s still in his boxer-briefs, and he sees Mr. Stark glance downward to take that fact in. They’re the tight, form-fitting ones Mr. Stark bought him two years ago after he’d complained about the way his boxers always bunched up under the suit after a too-long day of studying for final exams.

They say _Stark Industries_ on the waistband, ironically enough, since he’s about to get fucked with them hanging off his ankle in the Stark Industries Thanksgiving Macy's Day parade float.

He can hear Mr. Stark swallow, and finally, he takes his fingers off Peter’s face.

Peter closes his eyes, shivers at the feeling of those same fingers trailing down Peter’s chest instead, only stopping when they reach the area of skin just above where _Stark_ is written out in blocky white font.

“What’s the fourth?” Mr. Stark asks, but he must not want an answer, because he’s pulling Peter forward a second later, kissing Peter through a strangled moan and pushing his hand under the waistband of Peter’s boxers, wrapping his fingers around Peter’s cock, already so hard that Peter has to gasp, his back arching into the touch.

“This enough, kid?” Mr. Stark asks, panting the corner of Peter’s mouth.

Peter rocks his hips forward, the need building. God, he just wants to be touched and touched and touched; to be surrounded by Mr. Stark’s hands and body, by his smell and taste, the way his beard scratches against Peter’s skin.

His boxers are wet where his dick is leaking, where Mr. Stark is rubbing his thumb against the wet, slippery head that makes it all-too-easy to jerk him off even without lube.

“Pete, come on,” Mr. Stark prompts. “Answer me. Is my hand enough?”

It could be Peter’s imagination, fueled by whatever the Goblin had put in those bombs—he and Mr. Stark will have to investigate that later, when they aren’t otherwise preoccupied—but he thinks Mr. Stark’s voice is deeper than usual, a little strangled in tone, like he’s just as effected as Peter. Peter sobs at the idea, and unable to control himself, pushes forward until Mr. Stark has to take a step backward unless he wants to trip and fall.

Peter stumbles against a chair, lifting one knee onto the seat. It’s one of those folding chairs, but made out of a fancy metal and soft, plush material. A folding chair, but made by Stark Industries for the owner of the company. Peter leans over until his forehead is braced against the back of it, the metal pleasantly cool. He must look awkward, folded over like this, but he doesn’t care.

“Please,” he says, embarrassed to hear the slight whine that comes out like a desperate plea. “Mr. Stark. I need—please.”

It’s so quiet that Peter can hear Mr. Stark’s breathing—can hear the distant sounds of people outside, yelling and running around as they try to clean up and make sense of the chaos off the parade. This is New York; it’ll probably be up-and-running again in no time. People have gotten used to weird. After a second, Peter hears the much-closer sound of fabric, and of a metal belt clasp hitting the floor, a zipper being pulled down. He breathes, slowly, unevenly.

“I don’t have any lube, kid,” Mr. Stark says after a too-long minute, and his hand comes to rest on Peter’s back. His fingers trace over Peter’s spine, making Peter’s entire body shudder and his cock twitch. He stares downward, so focused on Mr. Stark’s voice, his touch, that he’s barely registering the fact that his cock is leaking so much that it’s dripping onto the seat of the chair he’d half-climbed on top of.

Mr. Stark tugs Peter’s boxers down, easing them over his ass and down his thighs. Peter cries out when Mr. Stark pushes forward, his cock shoving right up against the cleft of Peter’s ass, right between his cheeks and rubbing against his hole. He nearly loses his balance when Mr. Stark suddenly wraps a hand around Peter’s cock again, sliding his fingers against the wet head and tugging, once, twice, slowly jerking Peter off while he moves his hips in equally slow, tantalizing circles against his ass.

The chair makes an ungodly screech as Peter’s snaps one of the metal braces in half.

He jerks backward, startled, and Mr. Stark lets go of him instantly.

A short pause, and then as the realization sinks in, Peter hears Mr. Stark start to laugh.

“Christ,” he mutters, quiet and relieved. Peter can almost hear the tension Mr. Stark’s been holding in start to dissipate. Louder, he says, “I’ve got you, Pete, come on.”

Instead of wrapping his hand back around Peter’s cock, hard and hanging, he’s sliding his fingers along the cleft of Peter’s ass, his fingers slippery from Peter’s pre-come. That’s not going to be enough for Mr. Stark to fuck him, Peter thinks blearily, but he’s more than willing to let Mr. Stark try.

He doesn’t though. Mr. Stark wraps his hands around Peter’s hips, his thumbs digging in just above his ass at the base of his spine to tug Peter back one inch, two. Peter folds back over, moaning again at the way Mr. Stark is pulling Peter exactly where he wants him.

It almost feels like he really _does_ want him, is the thing.

Not wasting time, Mr. Stark pushes his body forward against Peter’s, lining them up all over again. Peter can hear him breathe too, this harsh, ragged thing, before he suddenly thrusts forward, his cock sliding up the cleft of Peter’s ass with a hard shove.

He starts moving hard, a facsimile of fucking that shouldn’t be enough but somehow feels amazing anyway. Peter can’t stop the way his breath hitches on every shove forward, can’t stop his fingers from bending the metal under his hand as he groans and closes his eyes, sinking into the feeling of Mr. Stark’s body rocking into his without the pleasure-pain that comes with a cock stretching him wide open like that first time.

When he comes, his cock slapping against his belly painfully and a worn-down whine escaping his lips, he reaches back and grabs Mr. Stark’s wrist, holding on for dear life as he rides through it.

Mr. Stark is cursing under his breath when he comes just a minute later, spurting trails of sticky white on Peter’s ass and bruising marks into Peter’s hips where he’s clutching. Marks to match the ones Peter left on his wrist, though Peter knows that any marks he leaves on Mr. Stark will last far longer than anything Mr. Stark manages to leave on him.

Physically, anyway.

Once Mr. Stark comes, Peter allows his wobbly legs to give out under him, and collapses half onto the chair and half onto the ground, knocking over a box of colored hats and what look like polka dot party horns.

He sucks in a breath.

Mr. Stark heaves himself onto the chair next to Peter’s arm, reaching over to push a hand through Peter’s sweaty bangs, moving them away from his face.

“You’re alright now?” he asks, voice soft – the same voice he has when he’s checking in on Peter when Karen or F.R.I.D.A.Y. has tattled on Peter’s midnight activities after nightmares that won’t let him sleep.

Worried.

_Parental._

Peter rubs at his eyes furiously, refusing to suddenly start crying.

“I’m fine,” he says, only it’s more of a snap. He forces himself up and onto his feet, grabbing for the spider-suit that had been discarded earlier. God, he’s such a—

“What if this keeps happening?” he demands, spinning around. “Mr. Stark, this—this was the fourth time!”

“Kid, hey,” Mr. Stark says, holding his hand up like he’s trying to calm down a skittish animal, or an unpredictable criminal with a weapon. “If you don’t want to—”

He stops.

Because that’s the thing, right?

Every single time, they haven’t had a choice.

Peter pulls on his mask. He can still feel Mr. Stark’s come on his ass, feels the sticky, drying liquid all along his thighs where it’s been dripping, on his waist where Mr. Stark’s hands had touched him, still covered with it.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “I have to go.”

Mr. Stark rubs a hand against his face, then reaches for his pants. They’ll be wrinkled now, no matter how expensive that suit might have been.

“Um,” Peter hedges, stopping at the exit of the float. God, they had sex in a _Macy’s Day parade float_. Seriously?

Mr. Stark looks at him, pausing where he’s buttoning up his shirt. “Yeah, kid?”

“Just.” Peter breathes. Taps his foot against the float.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

He swings the long way back to Queens.


End file.
